


winter came to shape her bones

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AFFC spoilers, F/M, Future Fic, Near Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is one cold night like many other nights - Sansa has walked out of her empty bed to Petyr’s out of habitude more than anything. It is easier to fall into pattern when it is winter, and she supposes there are worse things to get a habit of - and worse lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter came to shape her bones

**Author's Note:**

> On dirait ton regard d’une vapeur couvert;  
> Ton oeil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)  
> Alternativement tendre, rêveur, cruel,  
> Réfléchit l’indolence et la pâleur du ciel.
> 
> Your gaze seems to be covered over by a mist;  
> Your mysterious eyes (are they blue, green, or grey?)  
> Alternately tender, dreamy, cruel,  
> Reflect indolence and the paleness of the sky.
> 
> [Charles Baudelaire, Spleen et Idéal 50]

It is one cold night like many other nights - Sansa has walked out of her empty bed to Petyr’s out of habitude more than anything. It is easier to fall into pattern when it is winter, and she supposes there are worse things to get a habit of - and worse lovers.

The thin nightgown she was wearing under her furs falls swiftly on the floor, caressing the curves of her hips much like Petyr’s hands do. She leaves the cloth on the floor and steps out of it with a boldness she once wouldn’t have dreamed to have; Petyr looks at her as if he were worshipping an idol ( _a creature he shaped like clay_ , he thinks), and as his mouth meets her belly he whispers hoarsely that she already bears her body like a queen.

Her lips are sealed; she doesn’t thank him, she doesn’t greet him, but her fingertips graze gently the skin on his head before her nails scratch it. It’s a silent punishment he takes without a word: only his eyes smile, because he never knows her heart. Sometimes he’s certain, certain of her hathred towards him, that one day he will find himself sentenced to death - but she can’t know, can she? And she does come to him, every night, sweet Sansa…!

He lays her down on the bed, guiding the small of her back upwards with his right hand.

“I had thought you would not come tonight”, he told her, pushing inside her.

“And yet”, she replied, reversing their positions and shivering as the sheet falls from her shoulders and the icy cold air bites her skin, “you were waiting for me”.

Petyr chuckles, scolding himself: he should know by now how sharp her wit has gotten, how well she is learning. _Sansa, Sansa_ , he thinks, slowly, as less and less blood goes to his head, _your delicate sweetness will fool everybody_.

Her Tully hair falls on the pillow just before her head touches it; he observes, mesmerized, its reflexes in the candlelight, lost in a memory long gone. He doesn’t let his mind wander off too long, though, and he says: “Winter has made you stronger, sweetling”, waking Sansa up from her half slumber.

She smiles with the corners of her mouth. Oh, she _knows_. It had felt like winter had come to build her new bones made of iron, making her hips larger and her heart harder. Lords and knigths look at her the way her mother was looked at, now. Even Petyr, she noticed, now looks confused, at times, but she has learned to make it into his weakness, and her victory, silently. Sometimes she looks at his face and she wonders what it would’ve been like to love him, when he was young, no grey hair and a true smile on his face; she still has to push her sweetness back into a corner of herself, hidden, because life with Petyr taught her how sharp you have to keep your teeth when you play the game.

He kisses her, pulling her close under the thick covers, and she thinks about how very different Petyr’s kisses are from how she had dreamt kisses would be when she was a child in a summer world. The roughness of his tongue clashing with hers inside their joined mouths awakens something from the depths of her as she shuts her eyes closed, a fire lit in the very core of her being - nothing like the softness she imagined it would feel like, but this is better.

She steals air from his lungs when she needs to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> O femme dangereuse, ô séduisants climats!  
> Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,  
> Et saurai-je tirer de l’implacable hiver  
> Des plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?
> 
> Oh dangerous woman, oh seductive climates!  
> Will I also adore your snow and your frost,  
> And will I know how to draw from implacable winter  
> Pleasures sharper than iron and ice?
> 
>  
> 
> [Charles Baudelaire, Spleen et Idéal 50]


End file.
